Why is blood so often sown in meadows—
like the petals that bloomed from Hyacinthus’s body,
or the anemones that opened like Adonis’s eyes in death?
Every flower has its season
and every pleasure its pain.
Hyacinths for the deep bruise of jealousy.
Anemones, for enemies: a warning for the forsaken.
Aloe for affection and for grief,
two sprigs grown from the same seed.
Red carnations for a wilted heart.
Columbines for my mistakes.
Daffodils deceptive in their bright promise.
Butterfly weed caged between your palms.
Blue salvias, for I cannot let
you wither in my mind.
This is how I say I love you.
This is how I say I wish I didn’t.
Candace Williams
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